


Mind Heart

by Caritas_Lavellan



Series: Earth Mind: Alternative Perspectives [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2015-08-01
Packaged: 2018-04-12 09:52:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4474826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caritas_Lavellan/pseuds/Caritas_Lavellan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Solas' mind has a heart of its own.</p><p>This story was inspired by two things: a months-long obsession with all things Dragon Age, and a single word: her. When Solas asks the Inquisitor to help rescue his friend, a spirit of wisdom, he insists on the gender-neutral pronoun "it". Only in a conversation much later with Cole does he suddenly change it to "her". This could be mere accident; but what if it were not?</p><p>I owe a huge debt to the amazing writing team at Bioware: the mosaic pieces they left lying around were so beautiful that I could not resist piecing them back together. Just as Solas needs the gift of compassion to change and grow, so I hope readers will forgive me where my head-canon departs from theirs. <i>Melana en athim las enaste</i>: may humility grant favour.</p><p>I make no apology for the poetry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I often wondered when I cursed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #### After the explosion
> 
> _Solas: Are people only people because they are flesh and blood? Is Cassandra defined by her cheekbones and not her faith? Varric by his chest hair and not his wit?_   
>  _Lavellan: You have an interesting way of looking at the world, Solas._

“ _Fenedhis_ , Sophiyel! Why did you come back? You know the Breach threatens us all!”

Sophiyel gazed at the wall. “I knew you would come. I am safe with you here. I promise to go away as soon as you leave.”

“Then I will go now.” He turned away, resolute in his fury.

“Don’t go!” whispered Sophiyel, urgently.

“I am risking your existence every moment I stay. It would be kinder to go. Even disregarding the Breach, I am not calm. How can I debate philosophy with you when I am so furious and frightened? Perhaps we should both flee.”

“Stay and talk. Perhaps it will help ease your fear. When you leave, I will seek safety elsewhere.”

The ancient spirit of wisdom turned and looked Solas in the eyes for the first time since he arrived. He was shaking with anger and fear. Then he took a deep breath.

Silently he nodded, once, and Sophiyel continued, “Let us debate the virtue of a circle or square.”

“Shapes have no virtues, only properties. The square has four corners, the circle is balanced.”

“Let me take us somewhere where there are both.”

The smooth marble around them resolved into a circular auditorium, open to the sky. An amphitheatre sank into the centre: two overlapping squares making a star at the top and an octagon at the base. Eight triangular tiers of steps led down, seven steps in each tier.

Solas looked around. “You read my mind well.”

They sat down on the steps. “What else is on your mind?” his companion asked.

“The world is in grave danger from the Breach,” explained Solas. “As you must know. I cannot stay long. No ordinary magic will affect it. The rifts are growing all the time. I have tried and failed.”

Sophiyel shrugged. “And yet you hope. I watched you with her.”

“My hope is that you will not venture close again.” Solas shuddered, then reached for Sophiyel’s hand. “Please, _lethallin_. It is too dangerous. Go where the Veil is strong and old. Rifts are forming all over Thedas, and I may be powerless to prevent your death.”

Sophiyel nodded, squeezing his hand before letting it fall, and for a while they sat in silence.

Then, quietly: “What is she like?”

“She is a Dalish elf. A mage. Not a child, but young. With Mythal’s vallaslin. I do not know if that bodes good or ill. She has not yet awoken. The Anchor on her hand? It is expanding with the Breach, and it is killing her. I think I have managed to stabilise it to buy us time, but I cannot be sure.”

“Why her? Is it fate or chance?”

“I can never tell. In this case, perhaps chance. There were thousands of people at the Divine’s Conclave. Any of them could have interrupted the ritual I lifted from her memories. A Chantry priest. A Circle mage. Even a Qunari spy.” Solas grimaced. “Perhaps in some reality all of these are true at once. Or the ritual destroys the world and millions die rather than thousands. And the orb is nowhere to be found.”

“You are tired.” It was a statement of fact.

“I am always tired.” Solas stretched, then gently wrought his hands together in a new spell. Above the auditorium, constellations shimmered and changed. A moon, huge and silver.

“I must keep to the stars. This age is a time of great change for all of Thedas. The night has been long. And I am tired,” he repeated. “But while the music plays, we dance.”

Sophiyel lay down to study the stars. “What was your vision of our purpose?”

“The purpose of the world renews itself with each season. The Qun gets that right, if nothing else.”

“Each change only marks a part of the greater whole?”

Solas nodded. “But then it goes wrong. Pieces matter; they are not only pieces. A star may be part of a constellation, but it is also a star. And without it the constellation is incomplete. An owl’s flight through the Brecilian Forest may cause a tornado in the Waking Sea. Even the memory of an owl. How small is too small to matter? _That_ is why I am tired.”

Sophiyel looked at him, then back at the sky. Below the constellation of _Visus_ , the watchful eye, a star flickered into life. “You are thinking of her.”

Reluctantly, Solas followed the spirit’s gaze. “Yes. Every great war has its heroes. I wonder what type will emerge this time.”

“If she survives.” Sophiyel took his hand and stroked its palm.

He clasped the offered hand tightly. “I do not want to consider that she might not. But you are right. _If_ she survives. _If_ she wakes. A mortal, sent physically through the Fade. Right now I do not even know her name.”

“Maybe I can help. She shines brightly. I have heard… whispers from other spirits.”

“What do they say?”

“They say she is from the north. From Ostwick in the Free Marches, of clan Lavellan.” The spirit paused. “They say she is gentle. Intelligent. Kind.”

Solas breathed out: a sigh of relief Sophiyel decided he had not realised he was holding. “ _Ma serannas, lethallin_. The world will have need of compassion before this age ends. _I_ may need it.”

“Do you need to return to her now?”

“Not yet. I have done what I can to assist her. She will not remember the worst of it, and unless we are all already lost, she will wake soon. The Seeker will tell me I am needed to fight the demons from the rifts, and I will assist them.” Solas shuddered. “It is terrible. So many of our friends may perish. I hope her will is strong, otherwise we are all lost yet again. So much fear in the air…”

They fell silent again. _Distract him_ , thought Sophiyel. “Who is this Seeker?”

“Her name is Cassandra. She was a Seeker of Truth. You will know the history of the Order. Ironically, given the recent breaking of the Accord, she is Nevarran. And a Pentaghast. The Right Hand of Divine Justinia. She is both terrified and determined. I do not know her well enough yet to trust her, nor she me, but so far she has let me help. There is also a dwarf named Varric Tethras. They do not get on.”

“Varric?” asked Sophiyel. “A prince as well?”

Surprisingly, Solas chuckled. “It gets better. He is a writer. His brother is called Bartrand. I think there is history there, if you seek a distraction from our fears.”

“A strong protector and a shining raven. I wonder what their story is.”

“Cursed by fate and chaos, no doubt,” replied Solas, grimacing, “but I find myself liking Varric. He calls me Chuckles and has already tried to coax me into playing cards with him.”

“You were not tempted?”

“Not by Wicked Grace, not these days. I’m not much of a gambler any more. Perhaps I have played the game too often. But Master Tethras plays it for conversation not coin. That is why I like him and also why it is too risky. I may have to change my story depending on events.”

Sophiyel sat up, hand still entwined in his, and placed another hand on top. “I am glad you are not alone,” said the spirit. “You need companions. A wolf needs its pack. A bear cares for its cubs. Who else have you met?”

“The Divine’s other Hand, another spymaster: Leliana. She seems brittle, broken by events.”

“Another who requires compassion?” asked Sophiyel, “Her name means both sunshine and lilies.”

“Yes, perhaps. She travelled with the Wardens in Ferelden during the most recent Blight. She is intelligent and practical. I went to her first to offer my aid. I am avoiding her now as I fear she will ask further questions. There is also a Templar.”

Solas frowned, lost in thought.

“Do you fear him or fear for him?” came the quiet prompt, coaxing words from silence.

“Both, as ever,” replied Solas after a pause. “I think he may be a good man, accustomed to a life without choices. There are certain… adjustments to make. I fear for the prisoner when she wakes. Will she trust them? Will they let her live? She is an elf: will they respect her? She is a mage, and they might keep her shackled. When I arrived at the camp, I surrendered my staff to the Chantry forces without protest. It was a useful ruse, but also necessary: mages are feared there now.”

“Conflict between mages and Templars is hardly new.”

“The conflict generates chaos, and agents of chaos. They rise to power, regardless of who was responsible. And we must defeat them.”

“As Mythal defeated Andruil,” agreed Sophiyel. “A sad day.”

“Mages are not above the law,” said Solas, refusing to take the bait and freeing his hands. “Empires rise and fall, and slaves must be freed.”

He rose, and gazed up. The moon and stars vanished. In their place was a huge silver disc, reminiscent of the shields carried by sentinels in ancient Arlathan. The amphitheatre began to fill with water, crimson steam rising. The disc shone red-gold from the heat, a Chantry sun.

Solas gestured. “The Circle was a tightly clamped lid on a boiling pot. This conflict was inevitable.”

Sophiyel watched, remembering. “At risk of stirring the pot further, should not the water be green?”

“An emerald night?” he quipped, then shivered as if from a nightmare. “She bears Mythal’s vallaslin. She needs to wake first. And I must go. I will make one more attempt to seal the rift. If I succeed, I will come and find you again. If you want to track down Varric’s tale of the Champion, go north towards Kirkwall. But do not follow me; and stay clear of the rifts. You must stay where it is safe, _lethallin_. I do not want to lose you.”

“I will try. _Dareth shiral, lethallin_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of the Elvish used in this story can be translated from the Dragon Age wiki. Like a method actor (or spy), Solas keeps his adopted persona when meeting with Sophiyel in the Fade: they could speak in Elvish but choose not to.
> 
> The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work and others in this series are the property of Bioware and their brilliant Dragon Age writers, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of this work. I loved their world so much I wanted to write out some of the stories that it told me.


	2. Often feared where I would be –

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #### Before the Breach is closed
> 
> _Solas: This is not some fanciful story, child of the Stone. We cannot change our nature by wishing._   
>  _Varric: You don’t think?_

“ _Ma garas mir renan. Ara ma’athlan vhenas.”_

They were high above the Waking Sea’s salt spray, in a small circular cabin built on the cliffs. The reflection of the moon drifted on the waves. Far off, a giant fought a dragon on the shore.

 _“Andaran atish’an,_ Sophiyel. This place is Morrin’s Outlook. You were waiting here for me?”

“ _Ma serannas, lethallin_. You are right,” replied Sophiyel. “I have been seeking forgotten truths. And then your voice called me once more. It has been a while. Are we still in danger?”

Solas conjured up two comfortable chairs from the Fade, and they sat down. “The Breach is stable for now, and we have gained the mages. Once they have all arrived in Haven, they should be able to help seal the Breach. We have been closing rifts wherever they appear across Thedas, and strengthening the wards. She has become quite… proficient at this.”

“I am sure she had a good teacher,” smiled Sophiyel.

Solas flushed. “It is the least I could do, given the situation. But the Herald is a quick learner.”

 _Highest praise,_ thought Sophiyel, as Solas talked through the events of the last few weeks. Unlike the others that stayed and spoke – an ever rarer occurrence – his emotions were quiet, soft and subtle. He had once confessed to Sophiyel that he respected spirits too much to wish to tempt them, and so he had always steered the conversation deftly away into logic and conjecture and away from passion and pain. But Sophiyel had been watching Solas and his Herald from the Fade, and was not deceived.

There was an Orlesian sestet which captured the mood, had thought Sophiyel.

> _Long lingering glances: when her back she turns,_  
>  _He watches her: for he, despite his pride,_  
>  _Longs to possess her spirit, morals, mind;_  
>  _But cannot speak, lest in her flame he burns:_  
>  _That flame unquenched and never satisfied._  
>  _Ah, what he'd do, if once their stars aligned!_

So Sophiyel listened to his tales of time magic, and heard the echoes of another tale not being told. With his history, it was not surprising he should be reluctant to involve himself further. But was it the wisest course of action?

“It is vital the Inquisition succeed, to avoid the future she witnessed,” concluded Solas. “But now I would hear more of the past.”

He sought distraction once more, and could not be denied. _But if past and future are malleable, perhaps there is a way to take the conversation around as well,_ thought Sophiyel.

The spirit spoke: “I find the fall of the dwarven lands confusing. From the Fade, it is hard to piece together the history of the children of the Stone. The song that was sundered. Dwarva do not dream, and few others venture under the surface. And they are not often both able and willing to explain what they encounter.”

“Dwarves are the severed arm of a once mighty hero, lying in a pool of blood,” said Solas. “Undirected. Its skill gone forever, its mind without life and unable to dream.”

“It seems so. The Fade’s measure of living flesh, set apart from the spirits. That is the Stone. I can call the shape of a building from your memory when you are here, but otherwise stone perplexes me.”

“Instead of dreams, Orzammar venerates memory,” explained Solas. “Something we both understand. They strive for a single collective memory, to re-build the mighty hero. In their veneration of Paragons and their huge constructions they reach for this. They respect the beyond, the unattainable. But it is a dying culture: they cannot dream forward to move on, and too few children are born. There is not even a movement yet to re-unite Orzammar and Kal-Sharok.”

He looked sad. _He needs to look forward not back._ “Yet?” asked the spirit of wisdom. “Will you work on this, too?”

He did not answer, and looked away to stare through the windows, but it seemed he had appreciated the question.

After a while, he continued. “Before the Deep Roads were sealed, this region was connected to Orzammar and many lived here. So much has been lost… and yet dwarves can choose and feel and strive, set apart from magic and dreaming. It is not all lost, not quite. Something remains.”

Sophiyel followed his gaze to the moon’s shifting circle on the sea. “You have been speaking with Varric. I saw a memory from Kirkwall. He was speaking with the one who carried Justice, the instigator called Anders, before the event. You know my fondness for poetry. The dwarf said he was working on a poem. Shall I show you?”

****

The cabin, sea and cliffs faded away as Solas nodded assent. They walked along the streets of a doomed and dust-filled city. _Another doomed and dust-filled city,_ thought Sophiyel. Not far in front strode a small party: a dark-haired man beside a flame-haired warrior, and a blonde man with feathered pauldrons talking to the dwarf named Varric.

“The first two are Hawke, the Champion and Aveline, the Guard-Captain,” said Sophiyel. “Listen!”

They fell silent and watched.

“What?” said Anders, crossly shrugging off Varric’s hand as it reached up to touch his shoulder.

“Just wondered if the feathered pauldrons are an essential part of the moody rebel mage persona.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m working on an epic poem about a hopelessly romantic apostate waging an epic struggle against forces he can’t possibly defeat,” grinned Varric.

“What do you mean, “can’t possibly defeat?””

“Well, it’s not a good story unless the hero dies.”

****

Sophiyel let the scene dissolve. “I thought you might find it amusing to see this _durgen’len_ pay attention to avian symbolism, even before everything in his life fell apart.”

“At least no-one ever accused me of being hopelessly romantic,” said Solas. “I assume you had something more substantial for me?”

“I could show you where Varric explains how he misplaced his beard along with his sense of dwarven pride and gold-plated noble caste pin. Or Varric’s tale of his ancestor Dusan Tethras. A smith who would be Paragon. He killed himself when he forgot which goblet he’d put the poison in.”

“Let’s not start on beards again tonight,” interjected Solas, a dangerous glint in his eye.

“Right,” agreed Sophiyel. “The Primeval Thaig it is. Did you know they had been there?”

“The Seeker has a copy of _The Tale of the Champion_. The book has seen better days, but she let me borrow it on condition I never told Master Tethras she still had it. Shall we take a look?”

****

They explored the memory of the Deep Roads, passed the golems, read the wall covered with profane graffiti. _We who are forgotten, remember, we clawed at rock until our fingers bled, we cried out for justice but were unheard. Our children wept in hunger, and so we feasted upon the gods. Here we wait, in aeons of silence. We few, we profane._

“I heard it predates the Shaperate’s Memories,” said Sophiyel, as they followed Hawke’s party once more. “These memories belong to Aveline. She is still Kirkwall’s Guard-Captain and was the easiest to track down. I watched her dreams for several weeks until this one appeared.”

“Have you been here before?” asked Solas, inspecting the crimson trees of crystal which branched and grew around the rock pillars. “You realised it was both prison and temple, I assume.”

“For the red lyrium idol that we just saw Bartrand steal, yes. But I did not understand why. How old is this place?”

****

Solas gestured, and they were back on Morrin’s Outlook. A table stood between them, with three wine glasses: one with white wine, one with red wine and one empty. He pointed to them in turn: “Fade, blood and blight.” The first two are connected to possibility and will. The third is also connected to will, but poisoned. Just as red lyrium is ordinary lyrium, but poisoned. Concentrated.”

Sophiyel remained silent, listening.

Solas frowned and continued. “Blight is certainty without doubt. Without doubt, there is no faith. No hope, no choice. I am glad at least that I am not the elf I once was, who was certain he knew everything. I have learnt to make space for choice. And not to take choice from others.”

“Why make an idol from this red lyrium?”

“A statement of intent, I presume. Did you see what it depicted?”

“Not easily. Aveline thought it sacrilegious and did not wish to look too closely. I assume you saw more clearly than me.”

“It was a depiction of creation, of magic, of choice: the intersection of possibility and will. You will remember the tale the Dalish tell of Elgar’nan? The sun, curious about the land, bowed his head close to her body, and Elgar’nan was born in the place where they touched.”

Solas picked up the glass holding the red wine and poured it into the white wine, the glass growing larger to accommodate it. “A fine rosé,” he commented, holding it up to the light, “but when the sun, _Elgara_ , became jealous, he burnt the land, and lit the fire of vengeance within his son as well.”

“And Elgar’nan buried the sun in the abyss created by the land’s sorrow,” said Sophiyel. “All that remained in the sky were drops of the sun’s lifeblood as reminders.”

“Or so that tale goes,” said Solas, putting the full glass down. He picked up the empty glass, which began to fill with black steam, and poured the steam into the wine. The contents glowed with heat and the glass began to crack. “Abyssal peach, and not the best vintage. Another tale has Mythal walking out of the sea, persuading Elgar’nan to free the sun and creating the moon from the glowing earth around its bed. A pale reflection of the sun’s true glory. And in this tale the sun shows remorse and everything comes back to life.”

“And which is true?”

“We are in the Fade, _lethallin_ , so perhaps both.” He waved his hand and the glasses vanished. “Or neither. Much has been corrupted. Tales are like memories: they contain truths, but it takes reason and sense to extract them. The key lesson is that the blight corrupts everything it touches.”

“What happened to the idol itself?” asked Sophiyel.

“Varric’s tale says that his brother sold it to Knight-Commander Meredith, who reshaped it into her sword, called Certainty. Both Bartrand and Meredith were driven insane. Varric says it exploded when Meredith was petrified into a statue of red lyrium. I find that hard to believe. Such artefacts are not so easy to truly destroy. I hope no-one will wield it again.”

“She shook the radiance of the stars, divided them into grains of light, then stored them in a shaft of gold,” whispered Sophiyel, not wishing to mention maddened Andruil directly. He was in a mood to dwell on the past, it seemed. _Perhaps so as to choose differently this time._

“More apt for this setting than you might think,” replied Solas eventually. “The astrarium you see over there shows Fervenial.” His voice was firm, light, and it was only their long acquaintance that let Sophiyel hear the subtext: _Yes, tonight I want to remember. Some doors should stay shut._

Outside, a rosy dawn was brightening the eastern horizon. It had been their long-agreed convention for Solas to use light to help the spirit understand when their conversation would need to draw to a close. _Time._ True passage of time was something Sophiyel understood intellectually, rather than felt.

“You did not tell me how old the Thaig was.”

A smirk. “Maybe I don’t know myself. Do you think I remember everything?”

“I know you choose what you remember. You could have let it go.”

“It is a Keeper’s job to remember,” he admonished, quietly, mimicking Dalish intonation.

“And whose secrets are you keeping, _hahren_?” Soon, the sun would appear.

He shrugged and rose to leave. “We all have a face we want to show, and a face we do not.”

 _Time for one last truth_ , thought Sophiyel: “Why are you hiding from her?”

“I would not have her fear me. As for the Thaig, _da’len_ , have you ever studied the calendar? You might find the most accurate records in the dreams of scholars, if you encounter any before we meet again. I would recommend the University of Orlais in Val Royeaux, if you can avoid the civil war and any rifts. Or Cumberland is closer, but nearer the Breach. Just do not approach me until the Breach is sealed.”

“ _Ma nuvenin._ I have enjoyed our conversation. I hear you enjoy hers too. She shines brightly.”

The tips of Solas’ ears flushed pink. “She is… beyond what I hoped for. But it is hard to enjoy anything when the world is threatened by a blight-corrupted madman. It has been a relief to take refuge with you in the past again. _In uthenera na revas. Dareth shiral_.”

“ _Dareth shiral… hahren._ ”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive the artistic licence with the colours of the contents of the wineglasses: rosé is more evocative than cyan!


	3. Wondered where she'd yield her love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #### After arrival in Skyhold
> 
> _Cole: It makes sense. It holds them as they die. But then it’s a man, and he wants a woman. Why?_   
>  _Solas: When they possess people, they often indulge in feelings they have never before experienced._

Sophiyel experienced the healing of the Breach, even from faded Val Royeaux, reverberating with a shockwave of light. It was good, right, _safe_ again. When the wave had passed, Sophiyel had looked to the centre. A faint and far-off light twinkled and called. Two lights: one sharp and old, and one bright and new; a binary star. The spirit followed the call.

****

“I told her Corypheus’ orb was elven. That he threatens the heart of human faith. They sang for her, my _lethallin_ ,” he said, the first time they spoke again. _So proud. So happy._

“I told her the humans had not raised one of our people so high for ages beyond counting. I brought her here. Where else could I bring her? Faith in the Herald, in the Inquisitor, is shaping this moment, but it needs room to grow. And here the Veil is strong. I brought her through the snow. _Tarasyl’an te’las._ She is worthy.”

“You did well, scryer _,_ ” teased Sophiyel. “It is good to meet here once more.”

“I think I will begin painting again,” he admitted, with a shy smile. “I had not the heart before.”

He did not mention the past, and Sophiyel decided to save it for another time.

****

The next night, they were enjoying the comforts of the library. Sophiyel sat in a large chair emblazoned with _Visus_ , while Solas searched for a book containing the version of the Calendar he wanted to discuss. Not for the first time, the spirit marvelled at the details of his memories: with most mages, books would be hazy, letters blurred into images and patterns. But not for him. He had taught her to read: a skill few spirits mastered.

The creaking of the outer door alerted them. Solas got quickly to his feet and motioned to Sophiyel to stay seated. “It appears that someone is approaching. Stay here and I will go and look.”

From the upper floor, Sophiyel heard a woman’s voice, lilting and low: “What was this place? So much room for… whatever was here?”

“Inquisitor?” said Solas, stepping quietly into the rotunda. As if he had always been there.

“I’m interested in what you told me of yourself and your studies,” she explained. “If you have time, I’d like to hear more.”

“You continue to surprise me.” Sophiyel could hear the amusement in his voice. It seemed the Inquisitor had not realised they were in the Fade. “All right, let us talk… preferably somewhere more interesting than this.”

Sophiyel experienced the familiar displacement as they Fade-stepped to a memory of Haven, and briefly wondered if he were showing off to the Inquisitor or testing her. By including Sophiyel had he secured an audience or a clerk, or both? Then it was snowing and they were talking again.

“Why here?” asked the Inquisitor.

“Haven is familiar. It will always be important to you.”

“We talked about that already,” she retorted, but he had already moved on towards the Chantry.

Silently the spirit of wisdom followed them into the crypt, unperceived by the Inquisitor but surely not by her companion. _What game is he playing this time?_ It was not the first time Sophiyel had been brought to spy on conversations in this way, for one reason or another.

“I sat beside you while you slept, studying the Anchor,” continued Solas, his eyes on the bleak trappings of the cell and not the living woman beside him. He had abruptly disconnected the dream from the Inquisitor’s memories of chattering voices in the main Chantry, fooling her with a false impression of silence and intimacy. _Two things he always craves._ It would be highly unusual for him to be nervous, yet Sophiyel found it hard to dismiss the thought completely.

“How long can it take to look at a mark on my hand?” The Inquisitor was smiling at him with surprising tenderness.

“A magical mark of unknown origin, tied to a unique breach in the Veil?” He was smirking and turning to face her. “Longer than you might think.”

Now he was remembering his fear and frustration, persuading her of his story. “I ran every test I could imagine, searched the Fade, yet found nothing. Cassandra suspected duplicity. She threatened to have me executed as an apostate if I didn’t produce results.”

 _You didn’t tell me that_ , thought Sophiyel. No wonder he had been so anxious.

“Cassandra’s like that with everyone.” The Inquisitor was remembering her first experience of the Seeker, and offering it up as common ground.

Solas chuckled. _So good to hear that sound again._ “Yes.”

As he turned to leave, his face darkened, and Sophiyel had that odd impression again, of nerves. He was working up to some kind of resolution, a secret he had decided he needed to share, whatever the cost to his current or future peace. The spirit shrank into the deep shadows of the crypt as they passed back out of the Chantry. Thankfully, the Inquisitor’s attention was already entirely consumed. _Solas is a mystery to her. She is fascinated by his knowledge and his secrets. She scarcely pauses to think about the underlying strangeness of the setting. But then, he had always been exceptionally talented at remembering the details._

Sophiyel followed them out of the Chantry and sank gently into the waving fronds of the bushes that grew against its walls. Solas was walking ahead, avoiding the woman’s gaze once more.

“You were never going to wake up. How could you, a mortal sent physically through the Fade? I was frustrated, frightened.”

He turned to look at the Inquisitor, his back to Sophiyel. “The spirits I might have consulted had been driven away by the Breach,” he continued. _Why weave a lie when you can spin the truth like that?_

Sophiyel’s attention fell to studying the Inquisitor as he recounted his fear and uncertainty, his futile attempts to seal the rifts: “No ordinary magic would affect them.” She was listening avidly, drinking in his voice, her head bent slightly to one side as snowflakes drifted lazily in afternoon light.

Solas stared fixedly up at the Inquisitor’s memory of the Breach spiralling up, close to Haven. _Too close, and yet too far._ “I watched the rifts expand and grow, resigned myself to flee, and then…”

The displacement shock was powerful this time, not the gentle coaxing that had taken them to Haven, but a raw violence that left Sophiyel jolting with energy. _His memory, not hers. So the first memory of Haven had been hers,_ thought Sophiel, surprised. _Her dreams are as vivid as his!_

A dark despair: no light. He was taking her hand: a brief but intense feeling of intimacy. No sooner had Sophiyel recorded these sensations than the darkness was driven back in turn by a blaze like a massive electric shock: Fade-green magic to seal the rift. Then a feeling like a key turning in a lock, as if some legendary creature were returning to a home long left abandoned, unsure who might have taken up residence meanwhile. A brief image of a heart wreathed in flame.

It was entirely new, and entirely fascinating.

His face gave little away as he span her away to _his_ version of Haven. Would she see the difference?

She still didn’t notice. She was wondering: Did I do _that_? Did _I_ do that?

“It seems you hold the key to our salvation,” he was continuing, inclining his head regally and deliberately including Sophiyel; gratitude for her discretion. Most dreamers were never truly alone in the Fade: curious spirits or wisps would find interest in observing almost anything. But this Dreamer, swift and subtle, could always choose to be alone. It was telling that so often he did not choose that.

His heartbeat was wild and frantic. It was far easier to detect in his memories than in the other Haven they had left only moments before. Sophiyel noted a corresponding veiling of the Inquisitor’s senses. _So he really doesn’t know how she feels… either then or now. Ah, Dread Wolf, who is hunting whom?_

“You had sealed it with a gesture… and right then, I felt the whole world change.”

 _What does he expect her to say?_ If this were a test, then she could call him out on it, provoke a lesson on perception shaping existence. _That’s what I would do,_ thought Sophiyel.

A witty mind might play to the audience, “It was that impressive to see me awake?” and he, in too deep to joke, would declare his wonder at her achievement and his desire to have her walk the Fade to him. A faithful knight would honour his commitment to the cause and be gently chastised for failing the test: breaking rules of man and nature by accident not design.

But she was his heart, living and breathing outside his body, and she was speaking, questioning: “Felt the whole world change?”

“A figure of speech,” he temporised.

“I’m aware of the metaphor,” she countered, drawing closer to him. His heart was beating out of his chest and flying in the air. “I’m more interested in “felt”.”

She was close enough to touch. He could not break her gaze: “You change… everything.”

Sophiyel knew it to be true, knew that he knew it to be true, that he willed his heart to believe it.

“Sweet talker.” This time they both looked away, a heart’s breath to whisper: _Are you sure?_

She was, first, but he leant into the kiss she offered. As Solas surrendered, closing his eyes in the Fade, opening them to his new reality, Sophiyel faded away. The Inquisitor’s test was passed and no audience would be required at her judgement.

 

****

He came to the usual place, and knelt down, head bowed. He placed a copy of the book he had sought in Skyhold on the ground near the roots of an ancient tree. “Sophiyel, please forgive me.”

Sophiyel ignored the book. “What is there to forgive?”

“You disappeared. You don’t normally just disappear like that. I was worried you felt hurt.”

“I can’t feel anything, Solas. Spirits can’t.”

“When you left, I told her it was wrong, and woke her. Sophiyel, look at me. What must you think of me?”

Sophiyel looked down into his eyes. They were sad. _But I thought he would be happy._ “You told her it was wrong? How could it be wrong? Why? What did you say?”

He shared the memory. Sophiyel experienced snow, sweet surrender, hunger, desire… and sorrow.

“We shouldn’t,” had said Solas to the Inquisitor, pulling away. “It isn’t right. Not even here.” And then he had removed temptation by waking her up.

“What do you think?” he said to Sophiyel, once it had faded and they were back in the wooded glade again. “Do you forgive?”

“I think that you are projecting your confusion and guilt on to me. I am a spirit. You are not. I cannot feel, or change, or surprise you. You are the one who is changing. Perhaps it is upsetting you. She surprises you. You aren’t in control. Perhaps you have forgotten what it is like not to be in control, and it scares you. Or you like it, and feel guilty at not feeling guiltier.”

“But what about us?” he asked, gently.

“What kind of relationship do you think we have, Solas?”

“You are one of my oldest friends. I spend most nights with you. If you were not a spirit, we would have been married ages since. Even as a spirit, does that count for nothing with you?”

Sophiyel frowned, and knelt down on the moss, in front of him, taking his hands.

“I don’t experience time in the same way as you. When I am not with you, I don’t remember you in the same way as you would remember me. You are a brightness that calls me, a spectrum of energy that appears familiar. When you are here, my dormant memories of you awaken and I take my form based on those. Everything in the Fade is a memory, including me.”

He sighed. “So if I never came back, it would be as if you had never known me?”

“I think so. I cannot change, or learn, or grow, on my own. When I am with you, I find the thought of never having known you, or not remembering you, to be disturbing: a dark whisper. It is hard to imagine. But this sense of disturbance, or contradiction, is surely yours, not mine. How could it be mine?”

“That is fascinating. Why have I never asked you about this before?”

“Perhaps because you feared the answer?”

“Do you think I did?”

 _Wait. This is a different kind of test._ Sophiyel thought it through, as real hands caressed spirit hands.

“No. You knew it already,” concluded the spirit of wisdom. “Instead, you asked so that I might learn it. Is that right?”

“Aren’t you contradicting yourself? Either you can learn, or you can’t. Which is true?”

“Do you always answer a question with another question?”

“Would you prefer me to answer in a different way?” That beautiful chuckle again.

“If you are capable.”

Solas held Sophiyel’s gaze, and leant closer. He whispered: “When is a mirror not a mirror?”

Sophiyel smiled, shy and slow. “Why can’t it be both?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The answer to Solas’ riddle should become clear after the next chapter.


	4. When I yield, so will she

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #### Before Halamshiral
> 
> _Lavellan: It’s strange that I can understand that._   
>  _Solas: The secrets of this temple have remained unspoken for too long. They wish to be known._

"I did it!” cried Sophiyel, excitedly, the next time Solas appeared in the glade. “Fallen hero, dwarfed!”

He stopped to lean against a tree, perplexed. “Fallen hero, dwarfed?”

Sophiyel ran up and hugged him. “I did it, I did it on my own!”

He returned the hug, smiling. “What did you do, _da’len_? Speak.”

“When you left last time, I decided to try to learn something. To see if I could. I focused all my energy on remembering a phrase, and hoped that when you returned, the letters would have fallen into a different pattern.”

“An anagram? What of?”

“You won’t like it,” warned Sophiyel, hiding a smile in his chest. “It was _Fen’Harel, Dread Wolf.”_

“And of all the possible solutions, you came up with that one?”

“There are other anagrams?”

“Hundreds, I should imagine. _Leaf wonder, half red._ ” He waved a lazy hand and the moonlit glade was bathed in autumn colour. “ _Elf, herd dwarf, alone. Falon-deer flew hard. Flee, for Herald-dawn._ _Red hand of farewell._ ”

“Show off,” grinned Sophiyel.

“I have had time for such diversions.”

****

The next time, he looked exhausted, and lay down on the forest floor, closing his eyes.

 _“Mar din eth_ ,” whispered Sophiyel. “In death you are safe.”

“Is that what Wisdom would tell me? I fear it is different: your downfall is assured. Why in Elvish?”

“Why not?”

“The God of Secrets surely knows all languages,” he growled, a flash of anger crossing his features. Then he opened his eyes to look at Sophiyel and his face softened. “Forgive me… the last few weeks have not been easy. I am pleased that you are making progress.”  

“What has happened?” asked Sophiyel, conjuring up a soft pillow of moss for his head and sitting down cross-legged beside him.

“I feel like I have run through ten thousand years of history in a single month. Caer Bronach, the Emerald Graves, Dirthavaren, the Shrine of Dumat, Dirthamen’s lost temple, the abyssal rift… and Adamant.”

“The Warden fortress in the West? A place of pain. No-one should dwell there.”

“It was not the place itself, but what followed. A dragon attacked us, and the fortress crumbled. We were falling. I felt the Inquisitor opening a rift, and we fell through. Physically. Into the Fade.”

“Physically?” asked Sophiyel. “What does that even mean?”

“Our bodies went through the rift… and survived. We were right beside the Black City.”

“But that doesn’t make any sense. Why there?”

“It was terrible for Cole,” continued Solas. “He felt it more than any of us. He is a spirit of compassion made human: a fragile blessing and rare. You might like to meet him some time.”

“What did you make of it?”

“It was fascinating. To physically walk within the Fade…” he sighed. “A dream come true, literally.”

“I presume you are not still there,” said Sophiyel, suddenly aware of the possibility.

He chuckled. “It is not a place I would want to sleep. It is controlled by a demon of nightmares that had stolen the Inquisitor’s memories of the explosion and her first journey through the Fade.”

“How could it have the Inquisitor’s memories?”

“I cannot say. Perhaps it was originally a spirit of compassion or wisdom, seeking to help. Now it is a powerful fear demon that feeds off fears related to the blight. It must have stolen the memories either just before she left the Fade, or before she awoke in Haven. I think the latter: Adan said she was muttering about too many eyes and something about “the grey” while we looked after her.”

“That could have been you helping, Dread Wolf,” said Sophiyel, thoughtfully. “What did that part of the Fade look like?”

“Let me see. Floating stones, broken eluvians, the Black City nearby, a huge statue of Andraste, ravens like those in Kirkwall, red lyrium, claws of Dumat like those from the Primeval Thaig, a broken Tevene window with a ring of sundering, a plea from the warrior to the spirits for a wolf to replace the hound in the heart, oceans of memory and tombstones of fear. And a creature representing Divine Justinia, who helped us through. The Inquisitor eased the fears of the Dreamers and lit candles of hope for each of them. Then we fought some minor demons and escaped.”

“Did you all escape?”

“Again, I cannot say. The friendly spirit weakened the Nightmare demon, we fought and killed one of its minions, and the Inquisitor agreed to the Warden’s suggestion that he should distract the demon while we passed through the open rift back to Adamant.”

“So you met the demon itself. Did you speak to it?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes. It spoke to each of us of our fears: for Cole, Despair; for Cassandra and Hawke their powerlessness and irrelevance. Alistair was taunted with his cowardice, although the Inquisitor let him redeem himself at the end. I am glad Sera was not there.”

“Sera?” said Sophiyel, brushing away the leaves that had been falling on his arms.

“ _Ma serannas._ The little archer. I think she might have been even more disturbed than Cole.”

“Did the demon speak to you?”

““ _Dirth ma, harellan. Ma banal enasalin. Mar solas ena mar din,_ ”” he quoted, closing his eyes again. “I replied: _Banal nadas._ I suppose it was only to be predicted.”

Sophiyel looked down at him and was struck by a sudden and horrifying realisation. “It is linked to you, then? Your realm, your nightmare? Eluvians, ravens, the claws, the blight, wolves. The memories: all of those terrified by the blight, you are holding those memories, keeping it strong. You could let them go… you did it to save them… but why?”

Solas sighed and sat up, reaching out to take the spirit’s hands, calming, compassionate. “You do realise I will need to make you forget again? You cannot hold this conversation.”

“Again? Have you often made me forget things?”

“You always ask that, Sophiyel. I always tell you this: I do this out of love. I do not do it often; I do not often have need. Your wisdom is strong enough to bear much, but it will take compassion to follow me all the way. A spirit becomes a demon when denied its original purpose; you cannot be my guide through this. You can ask me one more question if you wish, but we cannot delay long.”

“Yes,” shuddered Sophiyel. “I want to help, but I can’t. I can feel Despair gnawing at me. My friend! What you did was right, it was necessary. Without their titans, their gods, the dwarva lost their magic, their souls have nowhere to go, and they emerge from the void as darkspawn. The hive mind a relic of when they were part of the greater mountain, the Stone. Their sorrow a blight unbearable. But why not forget and free yourself? Why you? There are other duties, _lethallin_.”

“Maybe we can weather this storm. I shall endure. Dwarves alone are lost to me, save scattered fragments of memory where a spirit has cared to watch. The wardens had it exactly wrong: you don’t kill the gods, but create new ones. We must take responsibility for ending the blight. The darkspawn needed to be given purpose. To end the blight, we must bring back the titans of old, but differently: you don’t need a king to face a blight but a paragon. The burial customs…” A tear rolled down his cheeks, and he released her hands to wipe it away. “This is why it was wrong and selfish to let her touch me: for me this is a task, timed, temporary. She is so beautiful, and I will never be.”

“Why lose yourself in this nightmare?” cried Sophiyel, despairing, as he brought his hands up to cast blessed amnesia. But he left a gift, a blaze of light in a single word: _EARTHMIND_.

****

The next time, he looked exhausted, and lay down on the forest floor, closing his eyes.

 _“Third name_ ,” whispered Sophiyel.

“Is that what Wisdom would tell me? Perhaps it was that simple, once.”

“What has happened?” asked Sophiyel, conjuring up a soft pillow of moss for his head and sitting down cross-legged beside him.

“I feel like I have run through ten thousand years of history in a single month. Caer Bronach, the Emerald Graves, Dirthavaren, the Shrine of Dumat, Dirthamen’s lost temple, the abyssal rift.”

“You visited your old temple?”

“A legacy of despair. When Dirthamen left, they clawed at the walls and prayed for a dawn that never arose. They had no god to take their secrets, the madness in their ears. They suspended the high priest in a ritual: his mind which cannot think; his tongue which cannot speak; his hands which cannot touch; his ears which cannot hear; his eyes which cannot see. For his heart, he was bound. ”

“How did you find it?”

“I showed the Inquisitor the first glyph in Dirthavaren. She is always fascinated by such things. To redeem the losses of the past…” He sighed. “There were other glyphs, and she sought them out, put the pieces together. A foreshadowing of the grim puzzle that awaited us in the temple itself.”

“She reassembled the high priest?” Sophiyel experienced a great wave of sadness, unexplained.

“Yes, although it was now Despair. We destroyed it.”

Sophiyel began to shudder uncontrollably. A despairing cry: “Is that the fate of all your priests?”

He brought up his hands, not touching, whispering: “I do this out of love.” A word blazed in Sophiyel’s mind: _DREAMHINT_.

****

The next time, he looked exhausted, and lay down on the forest floor, closing his eyes.

 _“Mind heart_ ,” whispered Sophiyel.

“Is that what Wisdom would tell me? It is as good a solution as any.”

“What has happened?” asked Sophiyel, conjuring up a soft pillow of moss for his head and sitting down cross-legged beside him.

“I feel like I have run through ten thousand years of history in a single month. Caer Bronach, the Emerald Graves, Dirthavaren, the Shrine of Dumat, the abyssal rift.”

“The shrine still exists?”

“The Inquisitor asked me to accompany her and the Commander there. I would rather have avoided it. Red lyrium everywhere. But all this history… it reminded me that I recommended you studied the calendar. I should have asked you before, but there has been much to think of.”

Sophiyel smiled and briefly put a gentle hand on his tightly clasped ones. “Relax, _lethallin_. Even you can’t remember everything.” _Although you probably do_.

He took a deep breath and moved to sit beside Sophiyel, mirroring the spirit’s posture. He placed his hands face up and focused until a book materialised on top of them. “Shall we look at it now?”

“Is this in Tevene?”

“Yes, these months were named in the language of ancient Tevinter. _Verimensis, Pluitanis,_ and so on. This book also includes the Fereldan names, starting with Wintermarch and Guardian.” He pointed halfway down the list. “What do you see there?”

“ _Ferventis_ – heat. Justianian. Then _Solis_ – Solace. Solas!”

“Yes?” he smiled. “ _Telanadas_. Nothing is inevitable. But some things are predicted.”

Sophiyel was poring over the calendar. “ _Verimensis_ , the month of truths. _Pluitanis_ , rain. _Nubulis_ , cloudy, overcast. Or marriage. _Eluviesta…_ the time of reflection?”

“Or the time of sacrifice,” he supplied. “You may remember the tale of Eluvia.”

“Ah, yes. It also means sand, used to make glass and mirrors: eluvians.”

A faint dawn was beginning to illuminate the forest. Sophiyel looked up, surprised. Usually they had longer. Where had the time gone?

Solas closed the book. “With more time, we could go into the history in more detail: the seasons and solstices, alliance and rivalry, order and chaos, the rising and falling of empires. But for now, the best gift I can offer is a part of the truth. Do you remember the legend of the lost city of Barindur?”

“The one where the High King turned away an envoy during the winter solstice?”

“Yes. You would be the first to remind me that legend should not be confused with history, but this is where this tale begins.” He put the book down and softly recited:

> _Before the fall, there was a choice._  
>  _The city would not heed my voice: the mountain fell, volcano fire suppressed her._  
>  _Tevinter formed, the dwarves allied: the mage and his deep-sunken bride,_  
>  _And I beheld the stars: Eluviesta._
> 
> _'Twas but a memory of light, since it was overcast that night –_  
>  _She sang as if the sun itself had blessed her._  
>  _She cried for them, she cried for me: I raised a force to set them free,_  
>  _In duty bound to my Eluviesta._

The trees carried the whisper around the glade: _Eluviesta_ , _Eluviesta…_

As it faded, Sophiyel looked down at the ground, lost in thought. “It seems very sad.”

Solas nodded. “It is. But I told you this so you could learn, not to hurt you. If you like, I will leave you with something to spell. As a promise for next time. Join me in Halamshiral.”

Sophiyel looked up and nodded, and heard him whisper, gently, “ _I hope a star may learn._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sophiyel's wisdom is necessarily imperfect in its understanding of the true nature of the Blight.


	5. I would her will be pitied!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #### After the rift
> 
> _Solas: Nothing about the Fade or spirits is simple, especially not that._   
>  _Blackwall: Aha! So you do have experience in these matters._

Waiting. Drifting, hazy, dreaming, as the humans danced in Halamshiral. Then sudden sucking, skewing, stretching, screaming. Falling, fading, faster… _fade step, caught, close, clinging, cradled_ … pushed to periphery, protected, prized, preserved.

_He caught me._

_She closed the rift._

_I am alone._

****

“Sophiyel?”

A crystal balcony overlooking gardens floating high above the earth. Soft music playing under a purple sky. Sophiyel shivered. He did not usually paint his dreams from this far in the past.

“The Inquisitor saved the empress and the negotiations have begun. I thought we could celebrate here together. Don’t you think it’s beautiful?” he asked, placing a tray of sliced fruit on the balcony.

_Yes. But a beautiful snake might still be poisonous._

“Did you solve my anagram?” he asked softly, when Sophiyel did not answer.

“No,” said the spirit, frowning. “I was woken by the rift, not by you. It didn’t work this time.”

“Did it hurt you?”

Silence. He chose a slice of apple, and gently put his arms around Sophiyel’s shoulders, placing the golden fruit in the spirit’s upturned hands. “Sophiyel, ma’taren’ara. Did the rift hurt you?”

“Why do you call me that?”

“Because it’s true.”

“No!” cried the spirit, angrily. “I cannot be your mind’s desire. I am Wisdom, not Desire. Do not tempt me with something I cannot have! Why would you tell me this?”

“Because you deserve to know.”

Sophiyel glared down at the slice of apple. “Go back and dance with her. She is real. You don’t have long. You cannot spend your precious time with shadows.”

********

Stars and midnight blue above, a memory of snow drifting over the Winter Palace.

“I had forgotten how much I loved to dance,” whispered Solas in Sophiyel’s ear. “It is not the same in the Fade. She is real; the music was real; everything was real. I could feel her heart beat in time to the music, my heart in time with hers, _ma’arlath_ , _ma vhenan_.”

_I think you had too much Orlesian liqueur. Or not enough._

He slid an arm around the spirit’s waist. “I barely escaped. I cannot tell her. I cannot go to her.”

_You should not tell me. You cannot come to me._

A shimmering dress of purple silk. A memory of threads entangled in the trees. His breath on the sharp tip of an ear. The softest hint of a growl.

“I must dance again. Before I wake, you must dance with me, Sophiyel. I cannot bear it else.”

 _I should not!_ “…I don’t know how.”

“You can, _lethallin_. If you like, I will teach you. It is poetry in movement.”

“ _Ma nuvenin,_ ” said Sophiyel.

The music poured from every tree, from the twigs, from the leaves. His arm circled Sophiyel’s waist lightly as they glided through transfigured memory, over shimmering stones and soft moss.

_With passion’d breath does the darkness creep. It is the whisper in the night, the lie upon your sleep._

The dance grew more complex, the darkness more intense. Still he held tight, the rhythm coursing from his mind to Sophiyel’s, steeped with and stepping with the sylvan music. The heavy scent of water lilies. He pulled Sophiyel closer, cheek to cheek, his hand stroking soft hair.

_Look up to the heavens: night has clouded over, no spark of constellation._

A searing song of loss. They barely breathed, barely moved. _Tel’enara bellana bana’vhenadahl_.

_The silence in between what I thought and what I said._

Suddenly it was hard to focus on anything, the music was so loud. When had it changed to a march? This was a song of war, a soldier’s hymn. A hundred separate voices filled the air.

_These savage unwashed warriors carried harmonies no Chantry choir has mastered._

Slowly, Sophiyel became aware that he was crying. There was no dawn. No dawn would ever come.

 _Banal nadas. Telanadas._ Time to choose.

Sophiyel looked deep inside and found the strength to resist.

“Wake up, Solas.”

And he was gone.

****

“When waked, we walked where willows wail. What does Wisdom want?” said Compassion, when he found her, a while later.

Sophiyel, still somehow sobbing, stayed silent.

“Wisdom knows enduring is pain,” said Compassion. “Did you know he envies us?”

He put an arm around Sophiyel as she sat up and slowly nodded, bleakly. “Yes.”

“He doesn’t need to. He can find happiness in his own way.”

“He is not one of us, and he finds it hard to remember such simple truths.”

“Yes,” agreed Cole. “Lonely, longing to love. But I came here to help you.”

She frowned. “Did Solas send you?”

“I am not sure. We share a room. He woke and I was awake. He didn’t see me, but I heard him. _Fool finds folly following. Sophiyel, sharp-sweet, succours sorrow._ I can help the hurt.”

“Helping him is helping me,” said Sophiyel. “He will need Compassion when I am gone. Can you remember that, but wash away the pain?”

Cole nodded, “Yes, I can wash clean.”

And so Compassion leant close and listened.

> Unuttered words remain where shadow dwells  
>  Truths pushed down, down, ne’er to arise again.  
>  Unspoken secrets cry where silence swells:  
>  I live when he is near, and only then.  
>  His heart revealed, unite it with the flame,  
>  Orb-branded, unconsumed, salvation’s key.  
>  Without Her we are lost: O sing Her name  
>  To all worlds’ corners and transfigured be.
> 
> Old secrets burn too bright within my heart,  
>  Too fierce for me, who cannot change or grow –  
>  Too dear to me, who has naught else to hold.  
>  He must secure his heart, endure the cold.  
>  But what if I were to succumb, betray?  
>  Sweet sunder-held in false unchanging day?  
>  Dear secret keeper, no! Let me depart!  
>  I fear to stay more than I fear to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sophiyel’s inevitable end approaches. If suicide is a trigger for you then please save the next chapter for when you have a good friend nearby.
> 
> The character of Sophiyel is taking inspiration from three sources: Enya’s music, Tennyson’s Lady of Shalott, and Dante’s Virgil. If you, like her, are half-sick of poetry by now, you might want to begin the shift to Solas’ point of view early, by watching my favourite video of his romance with Lavellan: No Light No Light.


	6. Cursed be love, she pitied me...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #### Before Enavuris
> 
> _Cassandra: Solas, if you do not mind me asking, what do you believe in?_   
>  _Solas: Cause and effect. Wisdom as its own reward, and the inherent right of all free willed people to exist._

Compassion was still holding her. They sat in a simple room with two chairs.

Slowly, Sophiyel got up and sat in the other chair. “If you have time now, I would enjoy talking.”

“Yes,” agreed Cole. “I can give you time.”

“With your time you are giving me two more gifts,” said Sophiyel. “The first is the gift of Existence: real existence, as long as you stay. Because you are Compassion, you are reflecting me and I am reflecting you. Solas would say that spirits exist in a state of peaceful semi-existence, and he is right. Two spirits together do exist, where one alone would not. Where I alone do not _._ But even two spirits together exist separate from reality, so lack the capacity to change and grow. Wisdom and Compassion, not Sophiyel and Cole.”

“Have you always called him Solas?” asked Compassion, going straight to the heart of the hurt.

“No, he was not always Solas to me,” said Sophiyel. “And I was not always Sophiyel.”

“Yes. You chose the sound and he chose the letters. You would have spelled it Sophiel. He said that the details mattered, that the why was important. You remembered his smile when he said it.”

_That cursed smile. It makes sense now._ “But this is what we are called, not what we are.”

“So I am always this?”

“You are always you. But because of your second gift, soon I may not be me.”

Cole curled up on the chair, watching. Sophiyel’s form was bright, not as bright as Solas or the Inquisitor, but hard to look at. He found it hard to understand what she said, but he would help.

“Let me explain. The gift you are giving me is that of Choice. I am a spirit, so I lack the ability to make true choices. On my own, I can shape the Fade, but nothing I do is irrevocable – it can always be undone by me or others.”

Sophiyel waved her hand to conjure up a shower of embrium petals. A pause as they fell, fleeting and beautiful. Then her other hand made them disappear.

“Like that?”

“Like that,” agreed Sophiyel. “Or, if I encounter a person dreaming, then I can reflect their thoughts. This is rarer, but still does not give me true agency. I can speak with a mage in the Fade, and they can ask me questions. But I cannot choose my answers: once the question is asked, I am compelled to respond in accordance with my nature.”

“Is that true even if the mage is Solas?”

“A wise question, worthy of Pride,” laughed Sophiyel, briefly distracted. “I can see he has already had a good effect on you.”

“Cole needs to grow beyond Compassion,” agreed the young man.

“Yes, you will. But because you _are_ Compassion, you are not imposing your will, your choices on me. You will ask me the questions that lie buried in _my_ heart, and I will answer them for myself. And, because you are also Cole, my answers connect to reality. That gives me the power to choose.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” smiled Cole. “Is it the same if Solas asks you?”

“He and I are alike,” answered Sophiyel, weighing her words carefully. “But he is much stronger. Sharper. As we have spoken over the years, he has shaped me, shaped my nature. And we were not so far apart to begin with. So, when I am with him, I am what he wants, and I am what I want. He would never twist me, because he is wise and because he is my friend.”

“So you are safe with him.”

“Yes. I was safe. But now it is a time of great change for all in Thedas, and I am afraid once more.”

“What are you afraid of?” asked Compassion, wondering whether bringing back the embrium petals would help. Or a kitten.

“Three things,” said Sophiyel, raising three fingers then letting one fall. “First: that we do not succeed in defeating Corypheus. We should all be afraid of that. If he breaches the Veil again then many will die, and I fear to be among them. You and Solas must help the Inquisitor.”

“Yes. I am helping,” agreed Cole. “You don’t know her, but I do. The Veil sings around her.”

“Thank you, Cole.” Sophiyel paused, let another finger fall and then continued. “My second fear is that I am unlucky or make a mistake and am summoned by mages who seek to torture or kill me for information I possess.”

“What kind of information?”

“I know a great deal of lore and history, but a mage could learn that simply by speaking to me in the Fade. But if there were information I did not wish to give… well, you have seen that I am wise enough to avoid answering a direct question. A sufficiently determined interrogator would not stand for this, and would find ways to make me answer. Then I would have betrayed my friends.”

“An enemy can attack, but only an ally can betray you. Betrayal is worse,” echoed Cole. “What is your third fear?”

Sophiyel closed her eyes and clenched her fists. “That He would ask me to dance again.”

“Why do you fear that, Wisdom?” asked Compassion.

She tried to speak and couldn’t.

He placed a gentle hand on hers. “Let me say it for you. Spirits wish to join the living, and a demon is that wish gone wrong. He hurts, an old pain, shadows forgotten from dreams too real. One side is slow and heavy, but can change. His pain is from before, when everything sang the same. You feel that hurt, and cannot heal it and…”

“Despair. Yes, that’s one fate,” sighed Sophiyel. “He told me one way to fend that off… the memory of hope, held strongly enough that even when hope has fled, the memory can protect.”

“You fear Envy more, then? Dark and desperate, death to make yourself alive, be held as his Herald, a kiss before he kills, soft and sweet surrender.”

“He would kill me. But no, I do not envy her. I thought I might, but he does not want me to be her.”

Cole nodded, slowly. “She changes everything, bright and blazing. You are his oldest friend, familiar, fond, facing facts. Instead… it sees him ready to jump. Pain pounding, pulsing, life of frustration can finally fall, to freeze.”

“Hold him high, show him the hole, where everything falls without him. He never needs to leave. He matters here,” said Desire.

Cole acted quickly, stripping the thoughts from Sophiyel’s mind as fast as they arose. Desire was strong, but Wisdom could be stronger, with his help. _Quick, quiet, quivering, questioning… question!_

“How strong is your will, Wisdom?” he asked, looking into her eyes.

Sophiyel shuddered, and re-formed. “Not quite the right question, Cole,” she smirked, “but for now ‘twill serve. Ask me what is in my heart.”

Compassion looked deeper, into her heart. “Determination, destiny… destination. River riven by war, emerging…” _Ah,_ thought Cole.

“Where will you go?”

“Enavuris,” said Wisdom.

****

Sophiyel made Cole agree that he would forget the details of the plan. He was reluctant, but she had practice at debate. _An understatement, save it for Pride._ The hardest part would be calling Solas for help, without him detecting the deceit. She would have to do it just before she turned.

“I don’t like it,” said Cole. “Why do you have to die for him to be happy?”

“If he is not happy, I will die,” corrected Sophiyel. “One way or another. He must harden his heart to a cutting edge. He needs to tell her he loves her even though he must leave her. It is the only way. He has no choice, but I can give him more time. I can take him no further.”

“Are you sure about the mages? What will happen to them?”

_I’ve seen the hearts of men, and they are weak._

“I am sure. What happens to them after is your problem, Compassion. Yours, and the Inquisitor’s.”

****

It had been terrible, yet wonderful. To make a real choice, to feel life and death in her actions and her heart. She felt exhilarated, sick, maddened. Lightning danced at her finger-tips, huge and wholly farcical. The Kirkwall mages, petty in their fears, fearing her, pawns in a game they never knew they played. Even if he never came, she would break their fragile binding and go to him.

Then, his voice, from far away, heart breaking, terrified. _So small._ “No. No, no, no. My friend. What have they done? What have they done?”

She roared in agony.

****

He crouched before her, sorrow etched into his face. “ _Lethallin. Ir abelas._ ”

_“Tel’abelas. Enasal. Ir tel’him. Ma melava halani. Mala suledin nadas. Ma ghi’lana mir din’an._ ”

“ _Ma nuvenin._ ”

As the world, all new, faded for her, she gave him one last free smile to remember.


	7. Aftermaths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Solas’ point of view. The conversations can all be found in Dragon Age: Inquisition; I have chosen only their order and setting.

_Gone._ He whispered, “ _Dareth shiral._ ”

“I heard what it said. It was right,” said the Inquisitor. “You did help it.”

“Now I must endure.” _Gone!_

“Let me know if I can help.”

He stood up, the polite mask back in place, and bowed to her. “You already have. All that remains now is them.” He stormed up to the mages, unthinking, in shock, intent only on vengeance.

But when she whispered his name, he listened. He quenched the fire that threatened to rage out of control inside him. The mages, ignorant but not stupid, lost no opportunity to flee. The Inquisitor was real, and he would respect her choices. Blind with grief as the huge wolf gazing down on them, he craved to be alone once more.

_Never again._

****

He walked back through the gates and greeted her. He wondered how long she had been waiting for him, and how much longer she would have to. Her voice was soft and gentle.

“How are you, Solas?”

“It hurts. It always does, but I will survive.”

“Thank you for coming back.”

“You were a true friend. You did everything you could to help. I could hardly abandon you now.”

“Where did you go?”

“I found a quiet place and went to sleep. I visited the place in the Fade where my friend used to be. It’s empty, but there are stirrings of energy in the Void. Someday something new may grow there.”

“What happens when a spirit dies?”

“It isn’t the same as for mortals. The energy of spirits returns to the Fade. If the idea giving the spirit form is strong, or if the memory has shaped other spirits, it may someday rise again.”

“You’re saying your friend might come back?”

“No, not really. A spirit’s natural state is peaceful semi-existence. It is rare to be able to reflect reality. Something similar may reform one day, but it might have a different personality. It would likely not remember me. It would not be the friend I knew.”

“The next time you have to mourn, you don’t need to be alone.”

“It’s been so long since I could trust someone,” he replied, looking down at his feet. _Too long._

“I know.”

He met the Inquisitor’s gaze again. “I’ll work on it. And thank you.”

****

While the Inquisitor set in motion the plans for the Inquisition to move into Suledin Keep, Blackwall came to stand beside him, looking out over frozen Emprise du Lion. _Company. One more thing to endure._

“I am sorry about your friend,” he said. “Losing someone is difficult.”

“Thank you. The death itself was less painful than what came before. Seeing a good spirit twisted, its nature defiled… those mages knew nothing of my friend.” He looked into Blackwall’s eyes with a fierce challenge. “Worse, they did not care.”

“I don’t know what to say,” apologised Blackwall.

 _You are nothing like a Grey Warden._ “Nor will you, until you’ve seen ignorance snatch away all that you love. Pray such a day never finds you.”

****

At Citadelle du Corbeau, after rescuing the soldiers, Blackwall – Rainier – sought him out again.

“You haven't said much to me since...well, you know.”

 _Coward. You dare seek forgiveness from me?_ “There is little to say. I assumed we were alike. We'd seen war, knew its terrible costs, but understood that it was necessary. But there was nothing necessary in what you did. You did not survive death and destruction. You sowed them. To feed your own desires.”

The warrior flushed, but persevered. “I know that. I see it every time I look in a mirror. I try to make up for it.”

“By wearing another skin. You ran away rather than face what you had done. You wasted your time.” Solas turned and walked away, before he was tempted into a fight serving no useful purpose save his own desire for destruction. _You destroy everything you touch, don’t you?_

****

He sat with Cole by a shallow brook as the Inquisitor tracked down _Hanal’ghilan_ for the elves.

“Bright and brilliant, he wanders the ways, walking unwaking, searching for wisdom…”

 _That wasn’t my memory._ Solas winced. “I do not need you to do that, Cole.”

But Compassion was persistent and would not let him be. “Your friend wanted you to be happy, even though she knew you wouldn't be.”

 _She?_ _Sophiyel, ma’taren’ara, I am so sorry._ He sighed and stared into the water, rippling over rocks and weeds. _I can’t bear this._ “Could you…” His felt his voice, and will, falter.

Unsummoned, there came to him a memory of his own voice, much earlier, before wisdom died: _The world will have need of compassion before this age ends._ I _may need it._

He sighed, and tried again. “If you would remember her, could you do it as I would?”

Compassion reached gently into his mind. “He comes to me as though the Fade were just another wooded path to walk without a care in search of wisdom. We share the ancient mysteries, the feelings lost, forgotten dreams, unseen for ages, now beheld in wonder. In his own way, he knew wisdom, as no man or spirit had before.”

He breathed out. “Thank you.”

_Guilt is a distraction I can ill afford. And it would make a mockery of her choice. It is a Keeper’s job to remember. Her choice. My duty._

****

The evening after their return to Skyhold, he sought out Rainier… _Blackwall._ There was a game of Wicked Grace going on in the tavern, but he knew that Blackwall would not be there tonight. Few there were willing to forgive, despite their Inquisitor’s compassion for the man.

He entered the smithy, noting with a wry smile the old fresco on the wall. _Too many reminders for me to forget my past, and yet I must change._ Blackwall sat heavy on a chair with his head on his hands, not moving even as Solas walked right up to him.

“I wish to apologise for what I said to you, Blackwall.”

The warrior looked up, then back down at his hands. “You were right, though. I deserved it.”

Solas put a hand on his shoulder. “My people had a saying long ago: "The healer has the bloodiest hands." You cannot treat a wound without knowing how deep it goes. You cannot heal pain by hiding it. You must accept. Accept the blood, to make things better. You have taken the first step. That is the hardest part.”

_Am I saying this to him or to myself?_

****

In the Hissing Wastes, sitting around the campfire, halfway up a mountain of sand. The Iron Bull was helping the Inquisitor put together the tale of Fairel, greatest of Paragons. Her hair gleamed in the firelight. He adored her intensity, her will, her compassion. Ever since The Iron Bull had made his choice, she had been bringing them both along on her expeditions. He wondered if either of them guessed that the chess match they had been playing was therapy for him as well. _Too much time playing with spirits, fade-walker_. He chuckled to himself. _Or the fate of nations, Heaven help me._

Suddenly she looked up and caught his gaze, and a slow smile spread across her face. _She knows about the therapy part, at least._ He caught his breath. _She has been more patient with me than I am with myself. I feel…_

He was startled from his reverie by Cole. _Mercy when you least expect it, Pride._

“It was a game, but more than a game. It meant he would get a family.”

“Competition brings passion, Cole, and passion lets people attach import to trivial things,” he retorted, looking into the fire to escape seeing the Inquisitor lift a quizzical eyebrow. Her eyes were still fixed on him. His heart was hammering. _Trivial, like her hair, her eyes, her soft lips…_

“Why didn’t they help at the end?”

Cole sounded sad. With an effort, Solas dragged his mind to where it needed to be. Cole’s gift was a blessing and a joy, but occasionally it cut too deep into his own mind for prudence. He thought of Sophiyel’s choice, and replied: “People wish to accomplish the truly great things on their own.”

“They didn't give the boy what he wanted.”

He looked around the camp and smiled. “They did. The boy got a family.”

“They gave him a new one. He wanted his old one. I would have done it better.”

“The wise must sometimes give people what they need, not what they want.” At last he met the Inquisitor’s eyes, seeking and finding both wisdom and compassion there. A spirit’s purity without its fragile inflexibility. _She was right. I need someone real. Someone who won’t break when I change. Someone who can ensure that I do change._

The Iron Bull cleared his throat and got up. “Right. You two just work whatever that is out of your system. Like poison. Weird-ass poison.”

“It's good. I can explain,” said Cole. _Why are they all smiling at me?_

Shaking his head, The Iron Bull headed off towards the tents. “I really didn't ask.”

****

The morning after they returned, Solas stood on the battlements to watch the dawn. The mountains, the fortress. He meditated on the tower as each stone in turn illuminated. _Cut, carved, piled, placed._ Each stone, each choice, each individual, mattering. _I am an individual too. I matter._

He thought of the Inquisition and its fight against the tide. Blackwall finding courage. Cassandra’s pilgrimage. Varric, weaving hope. _The Inquisitor’s love._

It was true, and real, and Sophiyel had seen it too. Her spirit was pure light: wise, compassionate, brave and just. The Inquisitor had never envied his time with Sophiyel, his friendship with Cole.

_I know the Rules. Kiss her thrice this side of the Veil and she becomes Desire._

It was worse than that. The Rules applied only to Dreamers. _Vhenan. I have given you all the time I have to choose another_. _The faithful Templar. Why did you not choose him?_

But she had chosen Pride. She had gone on choosing him. If he never returned her love, would she someday choose Envy?

_Never again._

****

He returned to the rotunda and waited by the flame. The Inquisitor usually looked in to watch him paint, or to curl up on his sofa and read. Love was patient.

When she arrived, smiling softly, he felt anew how utterly unworthy he was. “Inquisitor… I was…” he faltered. “Do you have a moment?”

It would be kindest to take her somewhere private. The only place where they could not be disturbed was her bedchamber. They walked in silence, across the hall, through the door, up the stairs, out on to the balcony. The air was sharp and cold; a gentle breeze fluttered. He needed proof, but could not break his cover.

“What were you like, before the Anchor?” asked Pride, turning round to face her. She did not answer immediately but raised her hand to study its palm, contemplating. He pressed on. “Has it affected you? Changed you in any way? Your mind, your morals, your… spirit?”

She smiled. “If it had, do you really think I’d have noticed?”

“No. That’s an excellent point.” He nodded slightly: _When completeness comes, what is in part disappears_.

“Why do you ask?”

He bowed his head, awed. “You show a wisdom I have not seen since…” _Andraste? Ghilan’nain? Mythal? Take care, apostate._ He met love’s gaze, encouraging him, and continued: “…since my deepest journeys into the ancient memories of the Fade. You are not what I expected.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” she teased him.

“It’s not disappointing, it’s…” _a miracle_. He blew a quick breath out. _The Inquisitor only knows you as Solas._ “Most people are predictable. You have shown subtlety in your actions, a wisdom that goes against everything I expected. If the Dalish could raise someone with a spirit like yours, have I misjudged them?”

She held her head high. “The Dalish didn’t make me like this. The decisions were mine.”

“Yes, you are wise to give yourself that due. Although the Dalish, in their fashion, may still have guided you. Perhaps that is it. I suppose it must be. Most people act with so little understanding of the world. But not you.”

“So what does this mean, Solas?”

 _I can’t turn back now_ , he thought. “It means I have not forgotten the kiss.”

She stepped towards him, her eyes softening, a smile hovering around her lips. “Good.”

 _I had to see for myself. And now I know I am not worthy. I should go._ Pride turned to leave.

“Don’t go,” whispered Love. Her hand caught his sleeve.

He paused. “It would be kinder in the long run. But losing you would…”

 _Just one kiss._ Love overcame his weakened resistance and he took her in his arms at last. His lips sought hers in a silent prayer for forgiveness, for his unworthiness, penitential, chastened. He was broken, black, blunted from being. She tasted of soft golden light and sunlit memory; rose and honeysuckle. He tightened his arms around her, never once lifting his lips from hers. He wished it would never end.

But she didn’t know, and it had to.

“ _Ar lath ma, vhenan.”_

He turned quickly and walked away, so she could not see the tears shining in his eyes.

****

 

> When first I summoned her, she was a rose,  
>  Unwithering, unchanging, and unthorned,  
>  A spirit of the purest love one knows,  
>  Who never hated, coveted, or scorned.
> 
> A second time I drew her 'cross the Veil,  
>  And shared a walk, a dance, a stolen kiss;  
>  With such a perfect beauty, pure and pale,  
>  No woman could compare, no man resist.
> 
> Then in my weakness I essayed a third,  
>  Tho' magisters their warnings did impart.
> 
> She broke my binding with a single word,  
>  And said this smiling as she clutched my heart:  
>  “Though love I was, your passion's changing fire  
>  Has forged this spirit into cruel Desire.”
> 
> Sonnet 126, “The Lover and His Spirit”, from A Chant for Dreamers by Magister Oratius


	8. Codex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not a continuation of the story, but a codex of notes.

#### Chapter 1

**One poem**

The headings for Chapters 1 to 6 form a poem by the mathematician and author Lewis Carroll. It’s called a square poem because it reads the same horizontally and vertically:

> I often wondered when I cursed,  
>  Often feared where I would be –  
>  Wondered where she’d yield her love.  
>  When I yield, so will she  
>  I would her will be pitied!  
>  Cursed be love, she pitied me...

If Solas’ frescoes are any guide, the ancient Elvhen were scholars of geometry. Solas may have even compared his predicament to the problem of squaring the circle: constructing a square with the same area as a given circle using only a finite number of steps with a ruler and compass. But squaring the circle is impossible within standard mathematics. Chapter 7 is called “Aftermaths”, or “After maths”, because logic and reason can only take you so far. Solas needs a miracle.

You can also find two overlapping squares within a circle in Solas’ fresco of the Temple of Mythal, but he hasn’t drawn that yet.

****

#### Chapter 2

**Two points**

On metaphor: The glasses of wine that Solas uses to demonstrate types of magic remind me of the lion statues at the heart of Val Royeaux: one is gold, one is bronze and weighted with poison, one is chocolate, and one is _watching_. I think the fourth glass would be upside-down.

On poetry: Dwarven poetry, where it exists, is haiku or children’s verses. Sophiyel shows Solas this particular scene with Varric not just to tease him: that a dwarf would aspire to epic poetry is a confirmation of hope on a grand scale.

****

#### Chapter 3

**Three mirror reflections**

> I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.  
>  Whatever I see I swallow immediately  
>  Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.  
>  I am not cruel, only truthful ‚  
>  The eye of a little god, four-cornered.  
>  Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.  
>  It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long  
>  I think it is part of my heart. But it flickers.  
>  Faces and darkness separate us over and over.
> 
> \- Sylvia Plath, The Collected Poems, 1961AD

> For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face:  
>  Now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.
> 
> \- Paul the Apostle, 53-54AD

> The children of the Maker gathered  
>  Before his golden throne  
>  And sang hymns of praise unending.  
>  But their songs  
>  Were the songs of the cobblestones.  
>  They shone with the golden light  
>  Reflected from the Maker's throne.  
>  They held forth the banners  
>  That flew on their own.
> 
> \- Threnodies 5, collected 1065TE

****

#### Chapter 4

**Four hypotheses**

1\. I don’t think it is coincidence that Eluviesta sounds like Eluvi-easter. It’s a movable feast with its springtime date based on the phases of the moon, and scholars are still debating the exact year of Andraste’s birth. If you count the Barindur eruption in 5990FA as the winter solstice of this potential grand cycle, and the explosion at the Conclave in 9:41 Dragon (8440FA) as the summer solstice, then the period of Eluviesta falls from 810TE to 1218TE (1:24 Divine), covering both the first blight and the lives and deaths of Andraste and Shartan.

2\. I think that the Earth is parched for love following Dumat’s silent spring, and Andraste heralds April showers. General Shartan might have appreciated Larkin’s poem Whitsun Weddings. There’s not space to include the poem (do read it if you haven’t) but it ends: _“there swelled a sense / Of falling, like an arrow shower / Somewhere becoming rain.”_

3\. I believe that when Solas says _Banal nadas_ he is declaring his lack of fear of the blight’s inevitability. He knows that there is strength in absence, in nirvana. I don’t want to go into too much detail about whether I think that Sophiyel’s insights are wholly correct. However, you may want to reflect on the similarity between what Solas is doing to Sophiyel’s mind and your own experience as a player of reloading from a saved game when you realise you chose the wrong dialogue option.

4\. And why anagrams? I imagine the letters dancing around in Sophiyel’s subconscious and resolving into the correct order. Having incorporated a square poem whose atoms are words, an anagram is a circle poem whose atoms are letters. Both Solas and Sophiyel are striving to connect with the divine.

****

**Chapter 5**

**Five leaps of faith**

1\. Solas is linked to the Nightmare, as Dirthamen is the twin of Falon'Din, and as the moon orbits the earth. Not the same, but irretrievably linked. And for Christians there are echoes of the Holy Trinity as well.

2\. The Nightmare holds all the fears of the blight, of nothingness, that have not been eased by others' compassion. It taunts Hawke with irrelevance: _Did you think anything you ever did mattered?_

3\. Solas' path follows that of Dante's Divine Comedy, ending his romance with Lavellan in a reflection of the Empyrean Heaven from Dante's Paradiso, the third and final part.

4\. Dragon Age itself has three parts, and DAII did feel like Purgatory at times. What if we are meant to follow Dante's path ourselves, so Solas might find us with Lavellan rather than Flemeth in the Crossroads at the end?

5\. When responding to the Nightmare in all playthroughs I have seen so far, Solas responds " _Banal nadas_ ", the nothing is inevitable. What if everything Hawke did actually did matter? Might he respond instead, " _Telanadas_ ", that nothing is inevitable?

 

**Chapter 6**

**Six blights**

Unless we prevent it, the sixth blight is coming. And this time there is no orb.

 

**Chapter 7**

**Seven colours of the rainbow**

There is a rainbow being chased (and traced) here, through magic and time, but I am not sure if Solas has realised it yet. There are many choices when creating a character, and I respect him too much not to leave him with some space to develop further. In any case the Fates have left us with the quickening, the blight and the Qunari to contend with: a triple threat of entropic, spiritual and created destruction. But they were not cruel once, and left the magic too.

I think the developers of Dragon Age have left us with various options to ponder about what they are planning. Options 1 and 2 are not mutually exclusive with Option 3.

Option 1: No world state from the Dragon Age Keep can prevent the inevitability of the sixth blight. ( _Banal nadas_.)

Option 2: There is at least one world state from the Dragon Age Keep in which steadfast compassion can weaken the Nightmare sufficiently that it does not break loose from the Anchor when Lavellan throws it the orb. ( _Telanadas_.)

Option 3: They will bring out new games so we can enjoy the Qunari invasion and watch the world drown in its tears as the Waking Sea rises. Time magic may allow us to go back and retrieve the orb, and perhaps more, or it may not.

As with the whole game, it's a matter of faith. You might wonder why, if Option 2 is true, we haven't seen this ending yet. Some of this is a matter of mathematics: the Keep has roughly 300 choices, meaning that there are approximately 2^300 world states. That's 2037035976334486086268445688409378161051468393665936250636140449354381299763336706183397376, if you're counting. We would need to make sure that every single choice is chosen for compassion. Some choices may be obvious, but not all.

I am willing to put my faith in Option 2. However it would be risky to depend on chance alone, unless there truly is a perfect soul of compassion playing the game. If we want to make it fate not chance, we have three gifts. The Qun teaches us the importance of purpose, of allocating roles. The blight teaches us the importance of the hive mind, and we can use the internet. The quickening reminds us that we cannot delay.

But we must be humble. The fire quenched, the spirit calmed, the cold endured. _Tel garas Solasan._ When Dante enters the Inferno (and the Dragon Age Keep is a Black City too), he must abandon all hope, and perhaps so must we. My poor knowledge of Dante at least encompasses that much.

****

And yet, there is a path.

Come, Spirits of Purpose, who desire resolution; Spirits of Faith, to trust beyond sight; Spirits of Wisdom, who have studied Dante; and Spirits of Compassion, to help us choose right.

Will you walk the Summer Pilgrimage with me?

Can you hear the Calling?

 


	9. Level Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Cole: She wants a Chantry, but it does other things instead._   
>  _Solas: She did not need a Chantry, she needed to remember her faith._
> 
> ****
> 
> _Solas: What will you do with the power of the Well once Corypheus is dead?_  
>  _Lavellan: I'll use whatever power I have to undo the chaos that Corypheus and his allies have caused._  
>  _Solas: You would put things back the way they were before?_  
>  _Lavellan: Yes. I mean, not exactly..._  
>  _Solas: I know what you mean. Thank you._  
>  _Lavellan: For what?_

One last thing. (Solas is not a thing. Well said.)

In Dragon Age: Inquisition, we re-create the explosion at the Conclave every time we select New Game. The Anchor connects our spirit to the player character through the Veil of our screen. Love may have started out rare, but we have a place where it can build… grow…

I have made my own summer pilgrimage. This game is re-growing a faith inside me, not exactly the one I left when I stopped going to church ten years ago, but one in humanity, and in what we must do. Spirits are one-dimensional, represented by colours: Sophiyel saw the face of God when she made the leap to Thedas to see Solas in the flesh. Dragon Age characters are two-dimensional, and in the epilogue, Solas looks to us to save him. In the previous chapter I spoke of how we might use our powers to do just that.

Is there a level up? Our Earth is suffering a sixth extinction, and Dragon Age is also an ecological poem. A further message of Dragon Age could be that every decision, every person matters. Your choice to recycle that newspaper or bin it? Your choice to argue your point through committee or sit silent? Your choice to show kindness to the slaves of this world? It all matters. Love is inextricably bound up with faith in humanity, and without it, life on Earth will surely die too soon. I have a vision of a beautiful rainbow-coloured sphere where everyone strives towards the top, against the tide of despair and rage, pride and desire. It would be courageous.

I started Inquisition in November and through Christmas played a human warrior. She was tolerant and kind, a good match for Cullen. After I watched the epilogue I resolved to play it through again, but did not get time again until Easter. My Lavellan, by fate or chance, did have Mythal’s vallaslin, though I did not realise this until later. At first Solas was hard to love – so proud – but we persevered. It was worth it. After he had gone, the Inquisitor and I restored every mosaic and searched every codex. I scoured the internet (thank you, Madrar). I wanted to understand.

Solas told Cole that he had no choice but to leave us. Compassion could tell us what, but not why. I wondered what Wisdom knew. Why was her quest essential? What lay dormant? I had never read fan-fiction before. In May and June I devoured it. Desire makes an idol of Fen’Harel: beautiful, blazing, broken. I wanted to try again, to fail better. In July I sought out Wisdom and she helped me. But it was only when she had gone and I wrote the seventh chapter that I found the final piece, the missing sonnet. Truly Dante and Shakespeare divide this world between them. I started this in Solas 2015. I am posting it on Funalis, All Souls’ Day, Lammastide, Juliet’s birthday, 1 August, the day when Solas’ worlds collide.

Oh, and Solas? If you’re listening. Hang in there, love. We’re coming for you. It may not be in your Chant but it is in mine: Love _never_ fails.


End file.
